


The Art of Dining

by GwendolynGrace



Category: George RR Martin - A Song of Ice and Fire series
Genre: M/M, New Year's Resolutions 2007, Yuletide, Yuletide 2007, challenge:NYR 2007
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-12
Updated: 2013-06-12
Packaged: 2017-12-14 19:14:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/840397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GwendolynGrace/pseuds/GwendolynGrace





	The Art of Dining

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ione](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ione/gifts).



 

 

Over their years as father and son, Tywin often accused Jaime of various disappointments. To the whole of Westeros, he was his father's golden boy, but behind closed doors, it seemed Jaime was constantly guilty of some calumny. No sin of his was more heinous to his father than joining the Kingsguard. It echoed through their every conversation. But then, Jaime was reasonably certain his father didn't know about Cersei. Jaime wondered which of his two last secrets Tywin would find more disgusting: that he had joined the Kingsguard for love of his own sister, or that he had remained because of Loras.

The first time he had seen Loras, he scrubbed the unwanted feelings from his heart as vigourously as he scrubbed his skin clean in the baths. Cersei was the only one he wanted, male or female, ever. That Loras was beautiful - young, lithe, graceful - was undeniable. He had refinement, to be sure. And skill; Renly had taught him more than how to bend over. But he was green with innocence, and one look at how he looked at Renly was enough to tell Jaime where the boy's loyalty belonged. Jaime told himself he had no interest in their kind of abomination; his own with Cersei should be enough for any man. He found opportunities to bury his desire, along with his cock, in her sweet folds, and did his best to ignore a fleeting wish for brown curls, instead of blonde, through which to tangle his fingers.

Then Jaime rode against him in the jousts on Joffrey's name day, and everything changed.

Loras sat his horse like one born to ride. His armor must have cost three fortunes - and Jaime pitied the squire who had to polish that embellished plate. Then the trumpet blared its signal, and the word narrowed to horse, rider, and lance.

Jaime still couldn't say how it happened. One moment he was about to strike just between Loras' shield and his shoulder, and the next, he was lurching in the saddle, reeling from the shock of Loras' lance tip. He twisted his foot out of the stirrup and flung himself away from his stallion only moments before the horse went down, overbalanced by his weight. As his mount righted itself, Jaime heard Lord Renly's triumphant shout in the stands. Young Tyrell tipped his visor up and smiled in acknowledgement while the crowds cheered raucously. Robert, the fat bastard, hauled himself to his feet and, to Cersei's obvious dismay, waved Loras over to receive his honours. Jaime simply turned on his heel and stalked off the field, trying to figure out how Loras had bested him so easily.

He didn't know how, but Jaime did know why: he had been distracted by Loras's near perfect technique. The way he waited to dip his lance until just too late to see where it would strike. Ruefully, Jaime thought perhaps it was merely the beginning of the end of his tourney prowess, and Loras was the inevitable young hero come to supplant Jaime in excellence. Although, Jaime reasoned, there would always be other tourneys.

Or perhaps it was only when Jaime thought of jousting against Loras - _Ser_ Loras, now, and of course, why not? - that he failed. At the Hand's tourney, he bested all comers, until he thought of facing _Ser_ Loras. Next he knew, his own bout with Sandor Clegane became a disaster. By the time the armorers clipped through his straps and got his helm off, Jaime could hear the death scream of Gregor's stallion when he drove his sword at his own steed. For one tense moment, Jaime believed young Loras had overplayed his trick, and would die for his cheek. But then Sandor appeared from the sidelines, and no force on earth could have compelled Jaime to step between those two brothers and their age-old dispute.

Unwittingly, Jaime's glance had sought Cersei in the gallery. At the time, Jaime thought she looked radiant, flushed with the excitement, but lately when he thought back on the day, she appeared bored. As she had become bored with him. Pushing that uncomforable realization away, Jaime conjured Renly's expression in his memories. Lord Renly had been suffused with worry for the young man who had been his squire, and probably more. Renly's face was taut and his eyes followed Loras without ceasing.

Then Loras ceded the tourney to Sandor - clever, Jaime thought, after everything that had occurred, and in its way... glorious. And Loras had never looked more attractive. He was so beautiful, so undeniably perfect, on that occasion, Jaime had actually ached with longing. He thought of offering his congratulations, but too soon Renly and others crowded in, and then all the fighters began to assemble and arm for the melee, and Jaime feared to get too close. Instead, he sought Cersei and her comforting, if poisonous, embrace.

If only things had remained that simple. Tainted and wrong, their union was still poetically elemental, the only love Jaime had ever felt sure of. In the months since that idyllic day, how he hated to think of the ways all his sureties had been stripped from him. His honour - what little he still believed he had - lost to Catelyn. His hand, his knightly strength - lost to Vargo Hoat, seven times damn him. His affections? Well, he certainly felt more fraternal protectiveness for Brienne than he ever had for Cersei. Perhaps the girl needed it more.

Maybe that's why he had stood up to Loras when they reentered King's Landing.

It was quite a surprise to see him again, garbed in the white cloak and looking twice as cocky as Jaime remembered him. When the boy lashed out at Brienne, oh, he was terrible and wondrous to behold. For half a second, Jaime wished, wondered, whether anyone would mourn him so violently as Loras mourned his Renly. And then that thought tangled up inside Jaime with less comfortable notions. He too had no luxury to mourn his boy. His king. Did he even care? All in a rush, Loras' squabble with Brienne made Jaime incredibly tired. He was confused, upset, he wanted Cersei, only Cersei, and Loras was nothing but an obstacle to that. He stepped in between them.

"Put the sword away, ser," he said tightly.

"Are you a craven as well as a killer, Brienne?" Loras asked, edging around Jaime withuot acknowledging him (and Jaime's annoyance at this rivaled only his annoyance at himself for letting it bother him). "Is that why you ran, with his blood on your hands? _Draw your sword, woman!_ "

"Best hope she doesn't," Jaime blocked his path again, stifling an exasperated sigh. "Or it's like to be your corpse we carry out. The wench is as strong as Gregor Clegane, though not so pretty."

"This is no concern of yours." Ser Loras shoved him aside.

That tore it for Jaime. Cursing himself for being three kinds of fool, Jaime grabbed the boy with his good hand and yanked him around. "I am the _Lord Commander of the Kingsguard_ , you arrogant pup. _Your_ Commander, so long as you wear that white cloak. _Now sheath your bloody sword_ , or I'll take it from you and shove it up somewhere even Renly never found." _There_ , he thought. _I know. Do you hear? I know, you fop._

And whether it was because he invoked Renly, or whether his intensity finally reached Loras - but no, more like it was Balon's voice added to his own - Jaime saw Loras blink, and soon enough, he had abated the situation and could flee to Cersei. Their lovemaking - brief, rushed, tinged with the passion of grief - was all the sweeter for its furtive desperation.

But then...things went so wrong. Cersei pushed him away. She had changed. Perhaps he had too, but her sudden harshness unmanned him in a way that losing his hand had not done. Set him thinking on things long set aside, like the handsome boy with eyes only for Renly. The thought made Jaime burn, from embarassment or shame, he was not sure. And before he could even process the meaning of it, he had had to face his father.

Tywin Lannister, back in his glory as Hand of the King. Tywin whose eyes burned with a pride he would never voice, presenting Jaime with the one thing he no longer had any use for. Tywin, who seemed to treat Jaime's obvious infirmity with a denial so palpable it made Jaime want to add his hand to the chain around his father's neck. Maybe the smell would convince him it had really happened.

Come to think of it, he had treated Stannis's carefully written letters, with their (true, but Tywin didn't know that) accusations about his grandchildren's lineage, with the same sort of contempt. Perhaps, Jaime thought perversely, denial was Tywin's only defense against shame.

Jaime looked at the sword again, reflecting on the travesty of his father's "welcome home" gift. His angry confrontation with Loras echoed in his head again. Well, he did know something of loss, but it was closer to self-pity than grief. And despite himself, he smiled, wondering whether the self-important, arrogant Loras, in whom Jaime saw so much of his younger self, could discern the difference.

~*~*~*~

At least, the youth did seem to grow more reasonable, which was more than he could say for Cersei. A few days later, hard on the heels of yet another stinging confrontation with his sister, he called Loras and Brienne to him. Loras had not yet made up his mind in Brienne's favour, which Jaime expected would be the case, but at least, he had a doubt, which was better than Jaime hoped.

Later, he told himself that it was thoughts of them--Brienne, Cersei, and Loras--that distracted him while he made the miscalculation of rescuing his brother. But that was untrue. It was the thought of Tyrion--his own father and sister having Tyrion beheaded--that distracted him from his tangle of thoughts about the three. Did he care more about his brother than Joffrey, his own son? Doubtless. Joffrey was never his, for one. And Joffrey had been a cruel, cowardly, conniving little shit, truth be told. Besides, he couldn't have forseen that Tyrion would climb all the way to their father's chamber, nor that he would be crazed enough to kill Tywin.

And that led to another revelation. Cersei had ordered it hushed up, of course, so naturally the whole of the Red Keep knew: Tywin had enjoyed the company of none other than Tyrion's whore on the night of his death. The image was as incongruous as it was laughable. As was Cersei's assumption that Jaime would be Hand. Was she mad?

Probably.

But no more mad than Tywin, to think he could wield a sword again. No more mad than Tyrion, to make himself a kinslayer.

No more mad than he, himself, to insist on standing vigil for his father's corpse alone. But it was guilt that prompted him, not grief. He had respected his father, at one time perhaps, had worshipped his cunning and his control and his strength. Joffrey--had he ever lost someone and known grief? Regret, yes, but...not grief. Perhaps he hadn't loved hard enough.

Of all the Kingsguard, Loras seemed the most distressed by Jaime's decision to hold vigil without allowing anyone to relieve him. Loras, who doubtless had done the same for Renly, or would have done if they'd let him. Loras knew grief, grieved still, Jaime thought. Was his distress an indication that he might have feelings for Jaime beyond that of concern for a commander? He found that intriguing. And terrifying. And beautiful.

He went to see Loras, when the funerary rites were completed.

"Lord Commander," Loras said with surprise when he opened his chamber door.

"May I enter?" Jaime asked humbly.

"Of...of course," Loras said. He stepped back to allow Jaime to cross the threshold. His room was decorated lushly, though without quite the penchant for decadence that Renly had always employed. A simple but elegant rug lay over the rushes and an ornate wardrobe stood to one side, along with a stand for his personal weapons. Both appeared to be carved from Arbor oak. On the far wall, a brazier was lit to keep off the chill of early evening, and a window opened on the training yard below. The room was divided by a tasteful velvet hanging, which gave his bed and dressing area some privacy. A writing desk and chair occupied the wall facing the wardrobe. "I'm afraid I'm not equipped to entertain, Lord Commander," he continued with perfect politeness, "but please, sit."

Jaime took the single chair. Loras pulled the curtain to one side to expose his narrow bed. He sat at the foot of the bed, facing his fellow knight. In the gaze of Loras's patient expectation, Jaime could not find his tongue.

Finally, Loras broached the silence again. "Have you come to ask me more about the Maid of Tarth?" he asked with some bitterness, but not the outright contempt he had had for her mere days ago.

"Brienne?" Jaime furrowed his brow. "No. Not about her," he said. "I...I wanted to ask you...."

"Yes?" Loras prompted.

"I wanted to...apologize," Jaime said to his surprise. But as soon as he said it, he knew it to be true.

"Apologize?" Loras blinked.

"At the gate...and again the day of our discussion--I've been...inconsiderate. About your...your loss."

Loras's face clouded. "You grieve your lord father, and you wish to be forgiven for mocking my grief," he surmised in a tightly controlled voice.

"No," Jaime said quickly. He looked up, unsure whether the rawness he felt in his heart could show on his face. "I envy you your grief. I can't seem to feel any. I know I should, but...." He drew a breath and plunged forward with what he wanted to know. "What is it like, to lose someone so dear that it feels as if your entire world must end?"

Loras exhaled hard, as if the breath had been knocked out of him by a punch. His lip trembled. He made no attempt to deny it. "You've put it rather well, I'd say," he murmured. "Your brother once asked me...well, not the same question, but something similar. I told him it was as if the sun had set forever, and the only possible substitute was a candle. Can a candle shine like the sun?"

"You loved him that much?" Jaime whispered, immediately regretting it.

Loras said nothing for a long time. He stared into the flames of the brazier. "Yes," he answered finally, voice cracking on the single syllable.

Jaime's stump twitched and he realized he had an impulse to touch the boy's shoulder. "I've never...I don't know what that's like," he finished lamely.

Loras made a noise that was half-snort, half-whine. "I don't recommend it."

Jaime stood. "I've imposed," he began, but Loras stood just as quickly.

"No, Ser, it's I who has been inhospitable. I'm accustomed to hiding the extent of my grief, and yet you have come to me to discover how to unleash it in yourself. I cannot tell you...but I can tell you that it is a relief to be able to share one's pain. For myself, I have only ever been able to be unguarded with my sister. Surely you can lean upon Her Grace? She after all has as much cause to mourn as you."

Jaime grimaced. "Cersei? Of all people in this stinking pisshole of a Keep, Cersei is the last person who is interested in my troubles. No. I am quite alone." He took a step toward the door.

"Not quite," Loras told him. Jaime turned to regard him quizically. "Dine with me, my Lord. I swear that I will keep your confidence, for whatever you wish to say. Unburden yourself, Ser. You'll forgive me, but you look as if you could use it."

Jaime opened his mouth to accept, but closed it again immediately. "You swear to keep my confidence?" he asked. "What confidences do you hope to learn, to bring to your father and Highgarden?"

Loras appeared stung. "My father does not know about Renly," he said very softly. "My secret is already yours, Lord Commander. If you wished, you could ruin us with an accusation. I merely offer you the chance to confide in one who has as much stake in keeping your counsel as you have in sharing it. I have no patience for the Game of Thrones."

Jaime accepted the chastisement graciously. "You've not been long in King's Landing, Ser," he said. "It changes one's perceptions of friendship. Too often for the worse. I am sorry."

"Dine with me," Loras repeated. "And I'll accept your apology."

~*~*~*~

Four hours later, they had filled themselves on goose, squash and turnips roasted in brandy, and crisp browned bread pudding, and were halfway through their third bottle of Arbor gold.

"...So I picked up the spade and slapped him across the arse," Loras said through stifled laughter. "And that's when he realized he'd been about to go into tourney with only half his armor on!"

Jaime dissolved into laughter as Loras's tale reached its conclusion. He slapped the table, thinking that it was all the funnier for the wine, and smiled at Loras's silly giggle. The young man's eyes were shining. Their laughter subsided while Loras poured more wine into both their goblets.

"That night was the first time we kissed," Loras said softly, his smile turning wistful. Jaime reached out as if to touch Loras, but his stump fell short of the leg for which he aimed. Loras did not fail to notice the movement, however. He nudged his chair closer and leaned over to place Jaime's wine before his left hand. "I have read that the warriors of Bayasabhad see no shame in lying together. They embrace the custom, say that it forms bonds tighter than friendship, makes their soldiers fight all the harder to save one another." He sipped his own wine, returning to the center of his seat. "I've always believed that what one does in the privacy of his tent--or his bedroom--is his own business."

Jaime grimaced. "Ah, but where would Westeros be if we could not gossip about each other's profane habits?"

Loras chuckled in agreement. He smiled again at Jaime, shyly. Jaime thought he was about to lean over again, but at the last moment, Loras lurched to his feet. "The hour is late, Lord Commander, and I have the watch on the morrow."

Jaime's smile faded at the sudden formality in Loras's tone, but he could not argue with the boy's duty. He drained his goblet and stood. "I thank you, Ser," he said with equal decorum, marred a little by the way he swayed on his feet. "Perhaps we may dine again and continue to...reminisce?"

Loras's eyes swept down Jaime, but Jaime had the impression that he wasn't looking at him, so much as thinking. "I...think I should like that, my Lord." He moved jerkily to the door and opened it. Jaime didn't balk at the dismissal, but he did wonder why it came so suddenly. He accepted it, however, and stepped into the corridor. The door shut before he could bid Loras good night.

He stood in the hallway, where a flickering torch sent deep shadows around the curve of the stairs. He had a choice: he could go up, to his own apartments and the White Book and sleep; or down, to the armory, the meeting room, and of course, the exit across the courtyard to Maegor's where Cersei slept. If she slept, and was not up half the night drinking herself to a stupor. But Jaime did not move in either direction. Instead, he stood outside Loras's door, wondering why the young man had so swiftly ended their conversation, and wondering why it bothered him so.

He knocked on the door again. Loras cracked it open. "Ye--" he began.

Jaime pushed the door open with his good hand, barreling into Loras. He closed his maimed arm around Loras's waist and pressed his lips to the youth's. Loras's lips parted with a small cry of surprise. Jaime's tackle had moved them into the room, but Loras pressed back and reached for the door, slamming it shut and then pushing Jaime up against it.

Jaime curled the fingers of his left hand through Loras's hair, deepening the kiss with urgency. He could feel Loras's heat through tunic and breeches, feel the grip of his corded arms around his own shoulders. Loras nudged one knee between Jaime's legs and hitched up. Jaime gasped, his eyes closed; not even Cersei's most passionate embrace had ever enflamed him so easily.

"Are you...sure?" Loras breathed between kisses.

"No," Jaime laughed. "I don't care." He pulled Loras's head forward to cover his mouth.

Loras was a little shorter, but somehow he pinned Jaime to the door and balanced him on one talented knee, kneading up into Jaime's balls. Jaime groaned with insane pleasure. "Bed, bed, bed!" he ordered, pushing back. Loras grinned and took his elbow to lead him behind the curtain, where he sat him down on the mattress and helped remove his belt and tunic. Loras knelt before him, a squire again assisting his knight, and unlaced Jaime's breeches. Jaime lifted up to let Loras pull them down to his ankles. He threaded his left hand through Loras's hair again while Loras pulled off his boots and the crumpled trousers. Then Loras straightened between Jaime's legs, placed one hand to Jaime's chest, and pushed him back on the bed.

"What...how...?" Jaime asked once he was lying against Loras's pillows.

"Shh..." Loras told him, putting a finger to Jaime's lips and receiving a kiss to its tip. He kicked off his own boots and climbed to his knees between Jaime's splayed thighs. Leaning down, he kissed Jaime's chest just above one nipple. Jaime bucked his hips with a moan of pleasure. "Patience," Loras murmured. He placed a hand on Jaime's shoulder. "Relax. Don't think. Just trust me."

Jaime nodded. But it was difficult not to think. His cock twitched with every move Loras made, every ghosting path his fingers and mouth and tongue trailed on his body, but he could not deny a nervousness like a bride on her wedding night. Did Loras expect take him like a woman, or did the younger man wish to be taken? Would it hurt? Would it make him less a man?

"You're thinking," Loras whispered, hot in his ear. He reached a hand down and squeezed the tip of Jaime's cock between thumb and finger, pulling back on his foreskin just a touch. "You can back out, if you like."

"Ngg....you'd like that, wouldn't you?" Jaime growled. "Another sign of my cowardice and weakness?"

"Never called you weak. Or a coward," Loras said. He licked a trail along Jaime's jaw line, strong and definite. "But I shan't force you, either." He pulled back to look into Jaime's eyes.

"Don't stop," Jaime said.

Loras smiled. It made Jaime think briefly of Cersei, but she had never really smiled like that at him. Not with that kind of lecherous promise in it. Loras reached to his right and pulled out a small pot into which he dipped his fingers. A second later, Jaime felt a probe at his arse and gasped when Loras slipped one fingertip inside him.

"Relax," Loras soothed. "Breathe." He held still while Jaime calmed down. "Inhale," he instructed, "and exhale." As Jaime complied, Loras pushed forward. Jaime moaned in pleasure.

"By the seven...." Jaime grunted as Loras worked him, kissing his way down Jaime's neck to his chest, his nipples, his ribs, his abdomen. Loras added a second finger just as he teased his tongue over Jaime's shaft, working up to the tip as his foreskin retracted.

"That's it," Loras told him encouragingly, sitting up and pumping one hand over Jaime's cock while the other scissored him open in even strokes. "That's it, Jaime, relax." Jaime drew his knees up, bucking into Loras's hand. He reached out with his left, cupping the younger man's face. Loras smiled. He took his hand off Jaime's cock, eliciting a whine from the Lord Commander, but Jaime soon saw what Loras wanted, for he caught Jaime's hand in his own and moved it firmly down his own tunic. Jaime fumbled one-handed at Loras's buttons. Loras took his hand away and resumed his strokes.

Jaime grew frustrated with Loras's interfering clothing quickly. "Help me get these off you, or we'll never fucking get anywhere," he growled after a couple tries at the loops that held his tunic fast.

Loras laughed. He slipped his fingers out of Jaime's hole, leaving a surprising void in their absence. With his right hand, he lifted the hem of his tunic and wiped his left off on his shirt underneath. Then he unlooped the buttons lazily while Jaime stripped him of his belt and reached for his breech lacings.

"Come here," Jaime ordered, hooking his fingers into Loras's breech front and pulling him down. Loras leaned forward to capture Jaime's mouth in a bruising kiss. He yanked down on his breeches with one hand while Jaime pulled on the other side. Suddenly Jaime's palm made contact with Loras's crotch. Loras hissed in raw desire. "Gods," Jaime sighed. He'd never held another man's cock and marveled at its heat, its weight, the way it jumped in response to his touch. He wrapped his hand around the shaft, testing the feel of Loras's flesh in his hand. A drop of precome leaked from his foreskin; Jaime slicked his thumb along Loras's slit, making him hiss again. "Beautiful," Jaime murmured. He sat up on his right elbow to watch Loras pull his tunic off. "Beautiful," Jaime repeated, this time in admiration of Loras's sculpted torso. Loras bit his lip as if deciding what to tackle first. Then he leaned forward and applied his teeth to Jaime's right nipple. One hand returned to Jaime's cock, and then Jaime felt Loras settle his weight onto him. That immensely talented knee found its way up against Jaime's arse, trapping his balls in the crush.

"Fuck," Jaime moaned.

"All right?" Loras asked, still massaging his knee side to side with gentle pressure.

"Better than all right," Jaime panted. "Loras...."

"Shh," the young man said again. "Jaime, don't stop," he instructed, nudging his cock forward in Jaime's hand. Jaime found his rhythm again. Loras matched it, knee and hand working in concert to bring Jaime to the brink. His eyes rolled back as he crested; his grip around Loras slackened.

Loras grabbed his shoulder and flipped them onto their sides with his arms and legs. Jaime had never been thrown around in bed--Cersei's preferred routine was to feign disinterest and let him overpower her--and fuck, Loras was strong and it felt good to not be in charge. His seed was cooling rapidly between their stomachs. Loras grabbed his good hand and brought it back to his shaft, interlacing his fingers with Jaime's. He worked quickly, showing Jaime where to pinch, where to rub his thumb, until Loras spilled white ribbons of come to mingle with Jaime's own. Loras fell back on Jaime's shoulder, his face flushed. Sweat dampened the back of his neck under his hair.

Jaime closed his eyes, letting his breathing return to normal. It was several minutes before he could speak. "Unbelievable," he said.

"Hm," Loras agreed sleepily. "That's just a taster," he muttered, still breathless. "There's so much more, if you're still interested."

Jaime grunted. "Just a taster?" he asked, bringing his hand up to cup Loras's chin and angle him for a deep kiss. "Then we should dine together more often. I find myself in serious need of a late supper."

 


End file.
